


Watson's Christmas Surprise

by believeinsh2012



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Arthur Conan Doyle - Freeform, Gen, Holmes Blatantly Loves Watson, Post Final Problem, Post Reichenbach, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach, The Final Problem, Unsent Correspondence, Victorian Johnlock Hints, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, angsty feels, letter writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-21 22:54:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/believeinsh2012/pseuds/believeinsh2012
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's only been six months since the fateful events that took place at the Reichenbach Falls. Sherlock Holmes, now in hiding, is desperate to write to his old friend Watson and let him know he's still alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watson's Christmas Surprise

_**15** _ _**th** _ _**December 1891** _

_**My dearest Watson,** _

_**It is hard to believe that six months have now passed since the incidents at the Reichenbach Falls, and that this will be the first Christmas Eve in the whole of our association as friends and partners, when we haven’t sat round the fire in our homely Baker Street rooms, and toasted to our good health with a glass of whiskey and a smoke. I drink a toast to you now, Watson, as I think of it, and it only remains for me, to wish you a very happy Christmas and –** _

Holmes sighed and tossed down the pen. He reached for his pipe, struck a match and lit it, then, with the flame still burning, gently touched the corner of the half finished letter and set it on fire, watching the paper curl over with the heat and the words he had written become obliterated forever.

It was no good, he thought. The man thought he was _dead,_ he couldn’t just start wittering on as if Watson _assumed_ he was alive. It would have to be something better than that. He took a fresh sheet of paper from the stack and decided to try again.

_**My dearest Watson,** _

_**Yes, it is I, your friend Sherlock Holmes. I know you believed me to be dead, but I am, in fact, very much alive. I am currently residing in India and although I cannot at this time hope to return home, I would like to wish you a very happy Christmas and –** _

This time Holmes hurled his pen to the floor, most exasperated. He grabbed the letter and screwed it up into a ball, throwing it across the room then running his fingers through his hair. Then he tucked his knees up to his chest and closed his eyes, smoking in contemplative silence for several minutes as he let his frustration ebb away. It would never do to let his emotions get the better of him and, for the most part, he had always been exceptionally good at both disguising and controlling them. His good friend Watson was something of a weak spot. It had pained him most considerably to have to leave the old bugger behind, but it was ultimately for his own good. Dangerous games were afoot and until all the loose ends had been tied it would have been reckless of Holmes to drag Watson along with him.

In truth, the letter writing had been more of a way to ease his own mind than anything. He doubted whether he would actually send any of them and common sense told him it would be a rather bad idea. For Watson to know he was alive would only put the man in further danger, especially with the ever present threat of Colonel Sebastian Moran still lurking in the background. Until the crazed sniper was caught and stopped, Holmes was not safe and nor was anyone he came into contact with. All the same though, he just wished there was _something_ he could do, anything at all just to show Watson he wasn’t forgotten, that he still thought of him with fondness and cared for him deeply.

Holmes stood up and wandered over to the window, staring out onto the busy streets of Kandahar, as he picked up his battered old violin. He had purchased the instrument from the market. It was cheap and nasty, not a patch on his old Stradivarius, but it did the trick. The stifling heat caused an annoying prickle of sweat on the back of his neck and he was forced to stop playing before he had even began to wipe it. It didn’t feel like Christmas in this weather. He would give anything to feel the bitter bite of London wind and the soft fall of snowflakes upon his face, and as he considered those memories, a small idea began to form at the back of his mind. He called for Abid, his young assistant, and arranged to have a telegram sent to his brother. Mycroft would doubtless disapprove of this new and slightly reckless plan, but Holmes had decided it was going to happen now, and that was final. This would be Watson’s Christmas surprise.

 

***

 

**24 th December 1891**

Dr Watson was closing up his practice ready for a Christmas break, and God knows he needed it. He’d been working tirelessly for the last couple of months and business was positively booming, as anyone with a good eye for observation would be able to tell by the state of his front door step. It always made him smile sadly every time he entered and left the building, as he thought of his dear friend Sherlock Holmes and the tragic end that had befell him at the Reichenbach Falls. He felt a painful pang in his chest as he began to lock the door, thinking that at least the fullness of his occupation had succeeded in keeping Holmes off his mind, although that only worked when he was at the surgery. Upon returning home each night and passing the familiar Baker Street residence, all his old heartaches and upsets returned, so much so that not even his darling Mary could dissipate them.

He still returned to Baker Street occasionally, to call on Mrs Hudson and sometimes to stand in the centre of their living room and survey the scene, replaying some of his favourite memories of their exciting and daring adventures together. Holmes’ brother Mycroft was continuing to pay the rent on the place, keeping things exactly as they were like some kind of garish museum. This particular day, was a rather poignant one for Watson, as he remembered the many Christmas Eves he and Holmes spent together, sat round the fire enjoying a good smoke and a warming glass of whiskey, and he thought he might indulge himself in a trip to their old rooms on his way home. He was sure Mrs Hudson would fix him a drink and they could toast their absent friend together, whom they both so dearly missed.

He was just set upon this idea, when he turned from the front door to find an old man with quite a long grey beard stood right in front of him, and blocking his path as he tried to leave the surgery.  
“Doctor,” he rasped in a sick, throaty voice. “I need to consult with you about the pains in my chest.”   
“I’m very sorry,” Watson replied. “I’ve just closed up.”  
“Please Doctor Watson,” he practically begged. “I’ve heard you are a very kind man and you wouldn’t turn away an old soul like me, not on Christmas Eve.”  
The good doctor felt a pang of guilt and, with a small roll of his eyes, turned round and unlocked the door again, leading the strange fellow inside.

“Tell me about these pains in your chest then,” he continued, once they were back in his consulting room.  
“Started about six months ago, sir,” he explained. “I lost contact with a very good friend of mine and I haven’t seen him again since. That’s when the pains came on.”  
“Ahh…” Watson nodded to show he was listening, although he was slightly distracted by the man’s words as they seemed to strike quite close to home. It was only six months ago that _he_ had lost contact with a very good friend but for, of course, very different reasons.

“But I really do wish I could see him,” the man continued. “Just so I can tell him that I’m thinking about him and that I want him to have a happy Christmas.”  
“That’s…very kind of you,” Watson mumbled, then frowned, “But what does all this have to do with your chest pain?”

Suddenly the man darted towards the door with renewed energy.  
“I must go, Doctor,” he muttered, shaking his head sadly. “The wife, she will shout. Thank you so much for seeing me.”  
“It’s…not a problem,” Watson sighed, slightly bemused by his client’s odd behaviour as he picked up the keys ready to lock up again.  
“Oh…one more thing,” the man paused in the doorway just before walking out. “You really must get a new stethoscope.”  
Watson glanced down at the desk in surprise, looking at his stethoscope. “What ever do you mean?” he cried.  
“That one is far too old and battered!” The man exclaimed. “Have you not observed the amount of scratches and dents?”  
“Um I…can’t say I ever have,” Watson admitted with a shrug. “You have…very keen eyesight,” he complimented, attempting now to usher the man out of the door. It always unnerved him slightly when others displayed characteristics similar to his old friend Holmes, and although it happened rarely, his customer’s observation was a little close to the bone.

 

***

 

Four hours later, Watson was back at home with Mary and had all but forgotten about the strange man at his surgery. He had, as planned, called round to Baker Street on his way back, and had a drink with Mrs Hudson whilst standing in their old rooms. He’d even plucked at the strings on Holmes’ old violin and stood in the window where he so often stood, staring down at the world and watching the people go by. It had been an emotional half an hour and although he was glad to have done it, he was equally glad to get back to his own house and settle down for the evening, try to think of cheerier thoughts.

He was just considering what present he should buy for his auntie when he noticed a small present under their Christmas tree that was in a different coloured wrapping to all the rest. He hadn’t noticed it earlier and he was sure it hadn’t been there when he left for work that morning, “Mary,” he called through to his wife in the kitchen where she was fixing them another pot of tea. “Whose is this present?” He bent down and picked it up, turning it over in his hands and looking at the label.

“Dearest Watson,” it read. “Happy Christmas. From someone who cares.”

It was for him! “Not sure,” Mary called back through from the kitchen.  
“It’s for me!” he replied, astonished.  
“Your friend Stamford was here earlier,” she cried.  
But this wasn’t Stamford’s handwriting. Watson would have recognised it. This scrawl, he didn’t. So who would be giving him a gift? An anonymous gift at that, and referring to him as ‘Dearest Watson’. It was all very strange and he couldn’t withhold his curiosity anymore. He tore open the packaging to reveal….a sparkling, brand new stethoscope.

For a moment, he sat, dumbstruck, then he quickly recalled the conversation with the old man in the surgery earlier, the way he had pointed out the dents and scratches on his stethoscope, told him he needed a new one. That man was the only person to ever point it out. But why would he buy him this? They didn’t even know each other, they were virtual strangers!

All the same, Watson couldn’t help feeling rather pleased with the gift. It was beautiful and actually exactly what he needed.  
“A new stethoscope,” Mary enthused as she came back with the tray of tea. “What a wonderful gift. Who was it off?”  
“I’m…not sure…” Watson muttered. “I’m really not sure…”

 

***

 

Outside the window, a smirking Sherlock Holmes crouched down obscured by a bush, and surveyed the wintery scene by the tree with a great deal of satisfaction and amusement. He had said what he wanted to say to Watson, without him ever realising it was him that was saying it. And maybe one day in the future, a couple of weeks, a couple of months, a couple of years, once he had finished disbanding the rest of Moriarty’s criminal web, he would be able to return to London permanently and let his friend know, who it really was that bought him the shiny new stethoscope, Watson’s Christmas surprise.

  
  


  
  
  


  
  



End file.
